The New World
by kiraglitter
Summary: Marche destroyed all five crystals- so why is Ivalice still the same? Now anarchy reigns, with no laws, and the Queen missing. Watch as an older,smarter Marche struggles to restablaize the world he tried so hard to destroy.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Disclamer: This is not mine, only the plot, which is based off of the original one, anyway.

I recently got back into FFTA and fell in love with it all over again. I am forced to take some liberties due to the fact that the story is set up as a game, and I am writing to try and make it in a plausable fantasy world. (for instance, chocobo are transportation, and the geography is of my own choice) Anyway, this story takes place after Marche destroys all that crystals and defeats Queen Remedi. Please read and review. Be gentle, this is my first story. Thank you!

Chapter One

Retrieving the Candoan Cardkeeper

Two people walked down the streets of Candoan, wary of everything that moved beneath the pale, blue-white light of the two moons. One was Human, his white uniform glowing with moonlight in the dark blue city, an orange sash across his chest, and a lavender-white turban atop his head. The other was a shadow- a flicker, as she darted around him in a blur of dark purple uniform. An assassin. Beautiful and fast, with browned skin and white hair and long, ochre rabbit ears, she surveyed their surroundings carefully.

They walked down the cobblestone path of the town. Houses, gloomy storefronts, and low stone buildings loomed up through the dim around the two. The paladin looked relatively calm, but something crossed his face every time he caught sight of the Viera as she flashed at the edges of his vision.

"Stop that." he said, tilting his head slightly. "It's making me anxious. Besides, no one's even here, Chiko."

She flickered into sight at his side, walking at a brisk pace, her short assassin's cape fluttering behind her noiselessly. All she said was, "Hush," in the quietest of tones. With most of her face veiled, he could only see her violet-blue-gray eyes, and they narrowed as they approached an alleyway.

The pair stopped before the even gloomier little lane. At the end of it, he could see a sign protruding from the right hand side, and it read, "Berbier's Law Cards". The two glanced at each other and the paladin nodded. The Viera seemed to vanish as she sped down the lane, and he unsheathed one of his two knightswords- a lionheart. It was blue bladed, curving, and elegant. He made his way down the little side street swiftly.

They stopped, backs to the wall on either side of the door. The two looked at each other, and this time, Chiko, the assassin nodded. The paladin in his glowing white uniform held his arm out sideways and pounded on the wood with a fist. They stayed on either side of the door, waiting to pounce once it opened.

They stayed outside for about a minute, before the paladin said, "He's knows it's us. He doesn't want to do any missions for Marche."

"Then we have to break it down." hissed Chiko, anger evident in her voice. "No one escapes Clan Nutsy that simply. Ready, Nothclif?" and she crouched down low in front of the door. Nothclif copied her, sheathing his sword.

They rammed the door with their shoulders, and it gave a shudder before crashing magnificently onto the wooden floor. The two jumped over the mess and glanced around the shop, before proceeding at top speed to the door behind the counter. Nothclif thrust it open, and met with a sudden thud, as a very heavy object collided with his chest.

He staggered backward, the breath knocked out him, but Chiko leapt into the room and found their quarry, clutching a vesper mace. Without hesitation, she pointed the tip of her masamune katana into his face, nicking his Nu Mou's snout. "Don't move, Ezel." she commanded.

The room looked like a storeroom, stonewalled and cold, with boxes of strange items lined against the walls, piled high in teetering towers, and a case of books covering one entire wall, some of the writing on the spines glimmering dully in the gloom.

"Ah… Chiko." he said slowly, though there was a hint of fear in his voice. Nothclif stumbled in, looking dazed and pressing the center of his chest experimentally. "I thought it was the Doned Faction again." Ezel was a blue-skinned Nu Mou, with a pink pointed snout. Like all Nu Mous he only came up to about a Human's navel.

She cocked an eyebrow skeptically. "Really?"

He held his position, sniffing indignantly. "Yes. They've been badgering me at all hours of the night to hand over law cards. They think they own Candoan."

Chiko smirked- or at least appeared to. It was difficult to tell with the mask. "Well, in that case, you'll be relived to know that we have a job to get you out of Candoan. Not that you don't already know that, seeing as how you've been avoiding your Clan duties for the past few months."

"Look, Chiko, put the katana down so we can have a proper conversation." His words rang false in both of them, and Nothclif took out his lionheart again, thrusting it toward Ezel Berbier's chest. "Ah." He said simply, "Not as stupid as you look, are you?"

Chiko did not lower her weapon, in fact she brought it close enough to touch if he flared his nostrils. "I could kill you right here, and right now, you know."

"Ah," he repeated, but softly, "However, I'm sure Marche wouldn't like that. If I die, then there won't be anyone to carry out that job which I am ignoring so determinedly. This would be failure, and failure-" he said pointedly, "is simply not an option for the two of you is it? Not with this mission."

"Oh, shut up." said Nothclif. He looked tempted to roll his eyes but did not.

"Bervenia Palace." said Chiko simply, "Marche wants a book from the Bervenia Palace Library."

"Oh, right, like it's very, very simple to break into Bervenia Palace in the first place." said Ezel sarcastically. Chiko slashed a rip in his robes with one swift movement before raising the point back up to his nose. "Hey!"

"I have the details here," said Nothclif, taking out a scroll from his bag. He held it about a foot out of Ezel's reach, though Ezel did not motion to receive it.

"Why should I? Other than the fact that Marche's my friend?" he asked.

Chiko snarled, "Because he's your Clan Leader that's why. Because this book is the key to success in our missions."

"And what would happen if I refused?" he said.

"We'd arrest you ourselves and dump you in Sprohm Prison. There's a lovely bounty on your head that would pay very well." replied Chiko darkly.

"But as a further incentive," added Nothcliff on a falsely bright note, "You will be paid handsomely for this mission. Twenty thousand gil."

"And an anonymous tip-off that you are in Jagd Dorsa up north." continued Chiko.

"That's not very much," he said querulously, but stopped short as Chiko put another small cut on his snout.

"_And_," said Nothclif, pulling his sword away slightly, "The investigation would be headed by us, and we _might_ just claim that you died in during the arrest. Clan Nutsy can be very violent."

"Now you're talking, paladin." Ezel smiled, "Anything for Marche."

Chiko nodded, they sheathed their blades. Ezel held his hand out for the scroll and Nothclif passed it to the Cardkeeper. Ezel opened it with a small flick. "This won't be easy, you know."

"You will be with people who have thief and ninja skills," said Nothclif. "Getting in shouldn't be a problem. Despite your blatant lack of Clan pride, Marche puts a large amount of faith in your abilities, Ezel."

Ezel blinked slowly. "He's a good boy, isn't he? Oh well, I guess I'll have to do this." He glanced down at the scroll. "I have until Kingmoon's full. That's only a few days." He looked upward as if he could see the starry sky and the two moons that hung there, through the stone roof. When he looked back down, he grinned. "Did Marche really send you two all this way from Cyril? That's at least five days travel."

"So you'll do it?" inquired Chiko a bit skeptically, not taking her eyes off the tricky Nu Mou.

"I need the gil to relocate." He gestured around himself to the towers and mountains of boxes. "I'm becoming too prominent in the business world of Candoan."

"Isn't that good though?" asked Nothclif, lowering his hand from his chest.

"Well it actually is a good thing- that is," he said darkly, "Until the Palace Legion comes to barge down your door. I was actually quite nervous when I heard you two knocking, then panicked when you broke down the door-" he paused, then added sharply, "Which I will be expecting you two to pay for."

Nothclif grimaced. Chiko did not seem at all abashed; instead, she seemed quite angry. "You didn't answer the door, you silly old Nu Mou." she snapped back. "We had to break it down."

"I thought it was the Palace Legion! What was I supposed to do? Let them in and serve them refreshments? 'Where should I put your coat, hat, and big shiny javelin, Mr. Templar of the Palace Legion? On the coat rack or the table in the corner with the half a dozen others?' Honestly, you Viera girls-"

"Alright! Alright!" interrupted Nothclif as he watched Chiko's hands curl around the handle of her masamune, and her ears twitch in anger. "We need to get back to the Chocobos before dawn and they try to run. Let's go, Chiko."

Huffily, she followed Nothclif out of the storage room and into the main shop. Ezel closed the door after them as they exited back out onto the little dingy lane, and wished them a very frosty good night.

Once back on the main cobblestone road, they sheathed their weapons again, and strode purposefully toward the western edge of the city, toward Nubswood. They walked along in silence, Chiko sometimes flitting in and out of sight as she darted around him.

They entered the dark and gloomy woods, trees looming up palely in the darkness as the followed the dim path. When Nothclif looked up, he saw that the starry sky was barely visible through the gaps in the trees, and moonlight drifted down in angular puddles upon the forest floor. They walked for several minutes, but about halfway through the wood, they heard a soft thud on the path behind them, and a voice called out, sudden in the silence. "My brother wishes to see the Cardkeeper of Candoan. And he sends the two of you to fetch him."

They whirled around and saw a familiar boy standing on the path. It was Doned Radiuju- Marche's younger brother, who chose to lead an enemy Clan. He was a shortish boy, younger and smaller than Marche, with a brown helmet of hair. He wore a green vest with a large white collar, and a blue, vertically striped shirt that poked out from beneath his vest in light blue swaths of lace. He also wore boots and several belts.

Nothclif made to draw his lionheart, but Chiko grabbed his wrist, not looking at him. "Wait- he's not alone!" she said urgently.

Doned smiled, "Yep," and let out a long, piercing whistle. All around them, several people rustled out from the cover of the woods, all were grinning maliciously. Many were Human and Moogle, wearing the green bandana-scarves of Thieves. A few were archers, soldiers, and one white mage. There must have been twenty people bordering the path, surrounding Chiko and Nothclif.

For a few desperate moments, they scanned the crowd, looking for an opening, anything. When their gaze swung back to Doned, he smiled.

"That's right-" he said, his eyes bright with a childish sort of glee. "You're surrounded."

"You're breaking the Law- the maximum you can have out on the field is eight-" began Nothclif vehemently, but Doned cut him off.

"What Law? Ever since my dear brother has destroyed all the Crystals of Ivalice and defeated Queen Remedi, the judicial system is falling apart, and Laws can no longer be upheld without her magic." He shrugged carelessly, "No Judge has appeared for our apparent engagement. There are no rules, there are no Laws, and if I K.O. you right now, you will stay that way."

"What do you want, Doned?" asked Chiko, her eyes blazing and her voice flat but fierce.

"I want Candoan- I want the entire western region under the control of the Doned Faction. And I want," he smiled, "My brother's Clan under my control as well. Oh, and Cyril too, the Human city at the center of the four regions." he added as an afterthought.

Nothclif bristled with anger beside Chiko. "Marche would never let that happen!"

"But it's started already- this is merely a small part of the Doned Faction." He gestured around at the Clansmen waiting for an order.

"You cheat!" snapped Chiko. "Clans are only permitted to have twenty-four people at a time, including the Leader and the Deputy!"

Doned placed his small hands on his hips. "As if that matters any longer. One Clan will have control of Ivalice sooner or later. It might as well be my Clan." He frowned at Chiko, watching her defiant eyes. "Hey! I remember you! You're the Viera who nearly killed me at Sienna Gorge!" He narrowed his eyes in disgust, which Chiko had been doing for past few minutes.

"I wish I had now, upon reflection." she retorted. Doned sniffed airily.

"Take her. Leave the Paladin as a message to my dear brother. I want the Viera." And for a young boy, he grinned with evil beyond his years. Nothclif yelled as a dozen thieves fell upon him, knives glinting in the small puddles of moonlight that drifted down between the tree leaves, as did the drops of blood flying through the air that splattered on the bark.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Not mine! Not mine! **

**Anyway, Marche ruminates and his thoughts explain what happened after the fall of Queen Remedi, before falling asleep and waking up to an attack.**

**Enjoy! Please R&R!**

Chapter Two

Rude Awakening by the Cyril Band

A blonde haired boy awoke in the darkness, his heart pounding in his chest as he gasped for air. He sat up in bed and looked around. He was still in his room above the Prancing Chocobo. A peach colored Moogle was asleep in the next bed, and he snuffled slightly as Marche got up out of bed, throwing the sheets back and standing on the wooden floor, which creaked beneath his weight. He stood by the simple vanity and splashed his face in the water basin and letting the water drip off the end of his nose back into the water, making ripples spread and the "plip" echo like a chime in the quiet room.

Marche had blonde hair, with two long tendrils tapering from the base of his bangs atop his head, and one like a ponytail from the base of his skull. He looked into the mirror and saw two blue eyes, sorrowed beyond their years with years of anguish and toil. Was he as alone as he seemed to be?

As if in answer, the Moogle in the next bed gave a little snore, turning over in his sleep. Marche glanced at his friend and gave a small smile. He toweled off his face and walked slowly to the windowsill, and gazed out at the sprawling city and the starry sky. He sat upon its wide edge and opened the glass outward to breathe in the night air. It was a powerful feeling to see the city laid out for him beyond the tiled roof that sloped down outside the window.

The thing he had been fighting for seven years surged up in his chest again, hard, cold, and immovable. It made Marche gasp for breath as he felt it threaten to overwhelm him. The thought that filled his mind as he stared out at the city of Cyril, was not a comforting one, _This_- this _not my world_.

It was beautiful, surely. The old style buildings were somewhere between feeling gothic and rustic, and things in this city, were pale, white and yellow. This city spoke of age and market places full of color and life. A place of relaxation, yet the certainty of strife in the next day. He wished it was his world. He wished he felt that innate sense of pride and love and patriotism, for his supposed city. Seven years ago, this was where he had landed in Ivalice and had the sheer luck to meet Montblanc, who to this day, was at his side, sleeping soundly in the bed next to his.

Try as he might, Marche had not been able to accept it for the past seven years- five of which he was struggling against his former friend, Mewt Randell, now His Highness Prince Mewt. And where was Ritz? Where was Doned?

Doned.

His brother and his two friends had done their best to ensure his failure in destroying the world. And though he had shattered all five crystals, and defeated Queen Remedi, the world remained the same. Ivalice was still a country. There were five races instead of one. And people did not live with their families much anymore- they were too busy questing and fighting and dying.

Oh yes.

With the defeat of Queen Remedi and Prince Mewt's failure to do anything, the Judicial system had taken over everything. Or at least they tried to.

_They failed rather spectacularly_, Marche reflected. The problem was that though judges were very powerful individuals, their universal powers and abilities worked only with the reinforcement from the Queen. It was she who gave them powers and their Swords. Their automatic strength to send people directly to Sprohm Prison for the slightest infraction of her precious, arbitrary laws.

Yes, it was Queen Remedi who kept the world in balance, though it continued to exist. The Judges, with their powers stripped from them, were no longer able to control engagements, they could not send anyone to prison, and worst still- they no longer kept an eye on the size and power of Clans. A few years ago, before Marche had destroyed the balance in the world, things were kept in a precarious, but perfect and functioning order. Queen Remedi's laws were carried out by the Judges and their subordinates. She had made it so that no Clan could have no more than twenty–four people, and thus become too powerful.

But now Clans fought each other to the death and battled over territory under their control- which meant taxes and laws written by Clans on various areas. However, most cities had managed to stay free due to their independent powers- or their own armies, which drove out their regional Clan who had been foolish enough to try to take over. Though Judges became rarer and rarer, Cities which once held pockets of energy from the Queen, did not suffer from death in combat. For some reason, the magic still held, and people were k.o.-ed in engagements that occurred in cities.

Clan Nutsy had strong influence still in Cyril-but Marche had kept their numbers at twenty-four precisely, and always battled with less than eight on the field. He had thought those rules were ironclad, and were of the utmost importance- but now, if he wanted his Clan to survive, he was going to have to expand. The smaller Clans had recognized their obvious fate, and volunteered themselves into a larger Clan, or they had dissolved, and their members were left to seek their fortunes elsewhere.

Marche watched the street below as a Bangaa and a Nu Mou passed, their footfalls clearly audible in the quiet, their banter and chat floating up to him on the third floor, where he sat, perched upon the windowsill, looking down at the two. The Bangaa was strangely tall, and the Nu Mou looked surprisingly fragile. They wore the clothes of a Bishop and a Sage.

For one moment, they paused, looking up at Marche, but their gaze passed over him and they were on their way, continuing to talk and stroll down the cobblestone street. They turned a corner, and went out of sight. All was quiet in the room.

Marche's blue eyes searched the city. Few lamps lit the streets, looking like little golden sparks far away, but the two moons provided most of the light, blue-white, and silvery, making the night look blue. Marche looked at the tiny jewels in the sky, making constellations that he was now familiar with- though they were not the constellations and patterns he knew from his home.

But was St. Ivalice even his home? He had only been there a very short time, and had only met Ritz and Mewt the day preceding his introduction to Ivalice.

Yes. Marche really was alone.

It was not the first time Marche had wanted to cry, but found that foolish pride did not let the tears fall from his indigo eyes.

When Marche woke up the next morning, he was still perched on the windowsill, but a blanket was draped around him, his head leaning against the side of the window, for someone had closed and latched the windowpanes so he wouldn't go tumbling out onto the street below after a three story drop.

A pair of big brown eyes grinned at him as he straightened up, set into a furry peach-colored face beneath two very wide rabbit ears and a shock of blonde hair. "Rise and shine, kupo!" smiled Montblanc. Unlike most Moogles, Montblanc was, as afore mentioned, peach-colored- he also had orange wings and an orange pompom.

Marche stood and stretched. Early morning sunlight was pouring in through the window, and the city was bustling with morning activities. Marche glanced out the window before grabbing his armor and pulling it on over his undershirt and short pants. "What is happening today, Deputy?" asked Marche.

"Kupo. Only dispatch missions. But-"

The Moogle's words were cut short by a banging on the door and someone rattling the door handle. Montblanc froze. Out of instinct, Marche drew his soulsaber and shamshir, one in each hand. The banging continued, growing more frantic-

"Marche! Marche, get up! They're coming!" shouted a familiar voice.

"Move, Human!" said another voice gruffly. And before either of the two could open the door for them, the door was blasted off its hinges, great slashes across it, and splinters flying through the air. A dragoon and white mage spilled into the room, followed by a gunner and a sage. The latter of the two looked slightly battered, with cuts and bruises, while the dragoon's clothing was tattered, though his armor was intact. Only the Human white mage looked unharmed but ruffled.

"What's going on?" hissed Marche, as the dragoon and gunner stood by the doorway, guarding it carefully. Outside in the hallway, loud shouts could be heard, along with the searing sounds of magic and the clash of metal and metal.

The white mage smoothed his robes and held his spring staff closer to his body. It was a beautiful thing, all black and blue, twisting around a light blue orb near its top. "The Cyril Band appears to want taxes paid by enemy Clans. They burst in about thirty seconds ago, Marche."

The sage, who readjusted his energy mace said, "About eight of us are down on the first floor fighting them- the pub is being torn apart. They've just reached the second floor, but the rest of us are holding them off- what do we do?"

"How many, kupo?" asked Montblanc, pulling out his own rod.

"At least thirty- they're storming the place, but-"

Again the Nu Mou was interrupted as a bullet chipped the door frame, with a whiz and a snapping noise, and another clipped the dragoon's cheek, and he roared in fury and screamed, "Basstard!" He charged out of the doorway and yells of pain and fear reached the ears of the others.

"Idiot!" cursed the gunner, firing down the hallway with his peacemaker. The rounds went off, loud and clear, followed by noises of impact, as the Moogle alternately ducked in the doorway and fired.

Marche sheathed one of his sabers and brandished the other one annoyed. "How long can we hold for?"

The white mage rushed to the doorway and slammed the end of his staff into the face of an oncoming Viera, who had previously dodged the gunner's shots. There was a resounding crack as he brought his spring staff down a second time with a move like a baseball swing. "I don't know, Marche." he panted. "Only half of us were up when they broke down the door."

"Is there anyway out of here?" he asked desperately.

"Not on the second floor- and there are still eight downstairs if they haven't been killed yet, kupo." replied the gunner. There was a scream outside the doorway, and a thud as a body hit the wooden floor.

"They won't kill them, kupo- they want money and'll ask for ransom." pointed out Montblanc.

"Clan Nutsy awaits your orders, Marche." the sage said dully. He seemed marginally unaffected, though battered, by the battle raging inside the Prancing Chocobo.

"The Cyril Band can stuff their taxes up their-" Marche began angrily, but he was saved the trouble of swearing irately as a defender pushed his way into the room. The Nutsy Dragoon had been holding him back, his javelin pressed against the other Bangaa's blade. But the knightsword sank down through the wooden pole and slashed across the dragoon's chest, ripping through the armor like paper.

The gunner fired shots pointlessly at the defender, for a huge, reflective white-blue aura enclosed him, blocking all attacks. He and the white mage who were standing by the door were thrown backwards by the gladiator. The Human crashed through the door of the closet while the Moogle was landed with a sickening thud and crack against the vanity, the mirror shattering.

Montblanc raised his arms above his head and brought them down with a smooth swift motion, red light emanating from his fists. Instantly, the defender came on fire, the flames flaring up and engulfing him as he screamed in agony, and vanishing just as quickly. In quick succession, the sage brought his energy mace down on the Bangaa's head, clanging on the helmet.

The defender lay still on the floor and did not get up. The white mage appeared from the closet, holding his arm at an odd angle, but the gunner did not stir. He ignored the defender sprawled on the ground and crossed to the Moogle, his hand glowing with white energy, and the Moogle stirred and shook his head.

"Let's go." said Marche. "I want to teach the Cyril Band something about Clan rights."

The sage smiled, and the white mage grabbed his arm and thrust it upward with a violent movement. There was a click, and he let out a gasp of pain and flexed his arm, tugging at the white and red sleeve of his robe. The gunner reloaded his gun in a few seconds, and small sparks of lightning licked at Montblanc's fingers.

Careful to step _on_ the defender, the five of them exited the room, Marche first with then Montblanc, the white mage in the middle, followed by the sage, with the gunner bringing up the rear. Marche swiftly crossed the hallway, a few bodies blocking the way- thankfully no one from Clan Nutsy. Marche passed a few of his Clanmates, who had successfully driven back everyone from the third floor.

Downstairs on the second floor, the battle was not so simple. The second floor was more like a rectangular corridor going around the inside perimeter, lined with doors leading into rooms for Clans and the middle of the floor was not there, revealing the first floor and pub, which was an open space full of wooden chairs and tables, with a check in desk near the entrance and a wide bar on the opposing wall. One side of the corridor left open except for railings so that the first floor was visible. The hallways were filled with screaming and battling Clansmen.

The five of them charged down the steps, Marche at the head of the party, his sabers whirling. He slashed and sliced a furious Viera, before pushing her body over the railing onto the head of one of her Clanmates, stopping the small Moogle in his tracks as he advanced on one of the eight downstairs. Marche laughed and returned to the fray, slicing everywhere, until a sudden searing pain and a flash of yellow light stopped his in his tracks. The light vanished in a flash, but the pain remained. He saw that his clothes were singed slightly, and knew he was hit by a thunder spell.

Furious, he saw a black mage in a corner of the hall winding around the inside of the pub, wielding a firewheel rod, his face obscured by his huge straw hat. Marche fought his way through to the mage, who was firing off spells left and right. With strength fueled by anger, he slashed at the mage, who managed to block with the rod with swift and skilled movements.

After exchanging at least thirty blows, Marche was getting frustrated, and a bit bruised, though the mage had not a single scratch on him. Marche raised one of his sabers again, and as it was blocked, he moved in unbelievably fast, and thrust his other saber into the black mage's blue-robed chest. Scarlet blossomed there, but the mage did not yell or scream.

He let his rod drop with a clatter onto the narrow wooden floor boards, and touched the blood on his chest with a slightly trembling, gloved hand before looking up at Marche, eyes yellow in the shadows. With a slight croaking noise, he raised his hand to his hat and pushed it backwards off his head, revealing a familiar face. Beneath the brim of the straw hat was an ordinary-looking person, his hair was dark brown, and his eyes a flecked green. It was the face of an innocent, a boy younger than Marche, and he knew who he was.

"No…" Marche reached for the boy as he sank to his knees, the battle raging around them. "Oh, please no…" Marche collapsed to the ground as well, and reached out a hand for the boy- but was stopped short, as a blade sliced across his back. He whirled around, but the offending thief had his arm around Marche's windpipe and was hauling him up, choking Marche, who struggled in his grasp.

Marche and the thief struggled through the hall and down the steps that led onto the first floor, the hold on Marche's throat never loosening for a second. The thief pushed and kicked tables out of the way, and slashed at some. The gash on Marche's back was oozing blood all over the thief, and he was steadily loosing oxygen and his vision became blurred as the pressure built in his head.

The thief's voice rang out tough yet smooth, like wet and rumpled velvet. "Everyone, STOP!"

Eventually, all the fighting ceased as the Cyril Band obeyed orders and Clan Nutsy saw what he was holding. People stopped, lowering their weapons but keeping an eye on the members of the enemy Clan.

"Thank you," said the thief in his velvet tones, looking around at the upper floor and glancing at the people who had fought in the pub. "Now, if anyone from Clan Nutsy moves without my say so, your leader will have a very nasty accident with my rondell dagger. Is that clear?"


End file.
